Bad Hair Day

The outdoor tables at the White Horse Tavern were all full, the evening sweltering. When it began to rain, we sheltered in a little, dry nook as all the other seats emptied and spoke of useless nothings. It was the perfect birthday. The rain passed quickly and by the time I reached Morton street, it had dried out. 

Promise not to worry, he said. Tomorrow I may wake up and find this all to be Russia. Your thinly veiled promises can't keep his voice from melding itself into your veins. I went out later, to a dive bar on 23rd street and it was easy enough to carry on conversation, but didn't my skin tremble a little more than usual? Was my gaze not just a little more distant, in the breaks? Your chest reels at distance, as the silence to come creeps into your periphery. 

You can't help but think the impending fall

may be worth it.